Figment of the Imagination
by Kneazle
Summary: AU. Hermione's life sucks: she was dumped, made redundant, and can't pay her rent. Unable to sleep, Hermione reads a romance novel – and wakes up with the hero in her bed...
1. I: the Woes of Hermione

Figment of the Imagination

Kneazle

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Story idea from Sherrilyn Kenyon's "What Dreams May Come" anthology book.

**Summary**: AUish. Hermione Granger's life sucks: she was recently dumped, made redundant, and can't pay her rent. Unable to sleep, Hermione tries to read a romance novel given to her for a past birthday – and wakes up with the hero in her bed. Is he real or just her imagination looking for a hero to rescue her[OliverHermione

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I.

_London, present day_

"… Here's to the men who had me," began Hermione Granger, slightly slurring the words, "The men who never will…"

"And to that special man out there who will treat you like a princess," finished Luna, with a dreamy, small smile on her lips.

Hermione blinked over at her blonde-haired friend, owlishly, and then nodded; she brought the bottle of vodka she was drinking back to her mouth and took a gulp. Ginny raised a single, perfectly arched red eyebrow at her friend knocking back a £20 bottle of vodka like it was a litre of water.

"Want to slow down a bit, you think?" the redhead continued, boorishly.

Hermione shook her head. "No," she replied, sounding almost completely sober. However, barely an inch of liquid left in the bottle was testament to how much she had drunk.

Pansy Parkinson, a rather pretty woman compared to the teenage girl she was once, reached for the bottle and finished it off herself before Hermione could. "You're going to have a helluva time getting back to your flat, Hermione."

The brunette sighed. "At least I still _have_ a flat. I won't if things keep up the way that they're going."

Ginny massaged her temples with a manicured hand; Luna twiddled her thumbs patiently, and Pansy, ever the snarky one, felt the need to comfort and shake her Gryffindor friend.

"Hermione, shall we review why your day has been so horrible?" the black-haired woman sweetly, rhetorically, began. She met Hermione's bleary gaze straight-on. "It's been five years since Crookshanks died. You are still mourning that _fugly_ piece of carpet. Second, you were fired from your very crappy, underpaid, underappreciated job as a _librarian_ in a stuffy, unknown research library in the Ministry, tucked out of sight and mind from everyone except for the oldest members of staff at the Ministry of Magic. Because of that, you'll probably be kicked out of your flat by the end of the month, unable to pay the rent. And last of all, Richard the Dick dumped you. Have I got it all?"

Hermione glared at her friend. "_Yes_," she hissed darkly, crossing her arms in front of her, on the table and letting her head rest on them.

Ginny shook her head and rested her chin between her two palms. "Hermione, really… you're beautiful, you don't need a man like Richard the Dick in your life. You have beautiful eyes"—

"They're like a mocha latte!" said Luna.

"—and you have a wonderfully curvy figure"—

"Like a Time Turner!" continued Luna, ignoring Ginny' glare.

"—not to mention you're just scarily brilliant"—

"Scarily," agreed Luna amiably, a wide grin on her pale face.

"—and your hair is just amazing, these nice waves and it's so long and dark"—

"Like chocolate!" sighed Luna, eyes twinkling. "I want some Tolberone…"

Ginny shot her a dark glare and wondered for the millionth time why her idiot brother was dating Luna Lovegood and not the gorgeous brain in front of her at the table.

Truthfully, Hermione never thought that; after a ridiculous attempt at romance on Ron's part – _"want to go to a Chudley Cannons game, 'Mione?"_ – Hermione knew it wasn't meant to be.

"I bet any of the men in this pub would be interested!" finished Ginny with a bright smile. She waved a hand aimlessly at her side, trying to gesture at the laughing men.

Pansy snorted and rolled her eyes. She took a sip of her Cosmo and studiously ignored the glare that Ginny sent her. "Yeah, if Hermione was looking for love in a brewery, maybe – oh, and wants to snog one." She shuddered theatrically.

"That's not true!" replied Ginny, shrilly; her voice began to rise in anger. "The men that come here to the_ Phoenix_ _& Frog_ are respectable, gallant gentlemen who know how to treat a woman nicely! They're knights in shining armour!"

Pansy rolled her tawny-coloured eyes and shifted in her seat, clutching her high-end Chanel bag closer to her body. "Just because you ended up getting mauled by Neville Longbottom when he was drunk and you decided to date him doesn't mean that Hermione will appreciate that."

Ginny fixed a beady blue eye on Pansy before swinging her head around to an amused Hermione Granger. "'Mione, can't you _please_ control her?"

Hermione held up her hands in surrender. "Sorry, can't," she grinned, "You know only Harry can."

Ginny huffed, slouching in her seat; it was no secret that Ginny Weasley and Pansy Parkinson did _not_ get along. The two women were complete opposites: one was comfortable, and the other dressed to impress; Ginny was a Gryffindor, Pansy a Slytherin; Ginny enjoyed being down-to-earth while Pansy was theatrical and loved to embellish things. They were as different as night and day.

But the real issue between them was that Pansy Parkinson had a large Harry Winston on her left, fourth finger. And that Harry Winston was given to her by _another_ Harry that Ginny once claimed.

Luna and Hermione secretly enjoyed their little catfights. The blonde and brunette knew the two would never take their arguments beyond words. Also, they wouldn't dare to while their men were barely three metres away, loudly chatting with several Puddlemere United Quidditch Players about their spectacular game.

Sensing Pansy and Ginny's growing ire at each other, Hermione shared a look with Luna and decided to break the two up. "Look, we are here to cheer _me_ up, and the two of you fighting will not make that happen."

Ginny looked at the tabletop contritely whereas Pansy just looked at her manicured nails, in boredom.

Hermione sighed. "Look, it's already late and I just want to go home."

"And do what?" protested Pansy loudly, trying to be heard over the boisterous pub crowd.

"Curl up into a ball and cry?" eagerly supplied Luna.

Hermione glared at the blonde. "No!" _Yes._

Hermione rose from her seat and staggered to the side. Pansy and Ginny both jumped to their feet, reaching out to steady their friend. "I'll be fine!" snapped Hermione, swatting their hands away.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, I can just see that, Granger."

Hermione soon found herself tucked between Ginny and Pansy, their arms around her waist and shoulders. Luna was waving her arms frantically, thinking it the best way to call a cab.

Finally one pulled up alongside the curb and the girls ushered Hermione in, following and slamming the door shut. Luna happily gave the driver Hermione's address – for however longer that would be – and then settled quietly next to the pouting Hermione.

"You shouldn't have worn heels," commented Luna, idly.

"You should've told me that earlier," replied Hermione meanly, her long, wavy fringe falling across her eyes. She petulantly blew them away from her nose; they settled there again after a few seconds.

The ride to Hermione's flat was short; Pansy and Ginny helped Hermione out (she stumbled again, into Ginny and nearly knocked the petite redhead into a rubbish can), and Luna paid the driver.

It took the three girls nearly twenty minutes to get Hermione up three flights of stairs; she had to be shushed four times, knocked into Ginny twice more and hit the wall countless times. By the time they stood outside Hermione's door, Luna had produced the spare key for emergencies and Ginny was muttering about not going drinking with the brunette ever again.

"You're a liability!" she seethed, dumping Hermione's purse onto the couch. Her hands were on her hips and she was tapping her kitten heel pumps loudly on the living room's hardwood floor.

"Sorry?" lulled Hermione, blearily looking at her friend through her fringe. She winced, trying to ignore the pounding at her temples that went in time to Ginny's stomps.

"A liability!" repeated Ginny, loudly. Hermione winced again. "There should be an insurance policy that people can take out on drunken friends because they are liable to kill you!"

Hermione scowled, wagging a finger at the redhead. "You're not nice. We're not friends anymore."

"You're drunk," commented Pansy lazily, "You won't remember this in the morning, so who cares?" She buffed her fingernails on her haute couture shirt.

Hermione's scowl deepened and Luna helped her down the small hallway to her bedroom. Once there, Luna and Pansy eased Hermione onto the bed, above the covers.

"Plock?"

Ginny shuddered in the doorway. "Do you still have that disgusting diricawl?"

"Plock plock?"

Pansy laughed at the redhead. "What, scared of a little dodo bird?"

Ginny crossed her arms. "It's unnatural."

"It's an endangered species," Pansy argued back. Luna ignored the two and darted toward the adjoined bathroom.

"It's already thought to be extinct by Muggles, why not add witches and wizards to that list?"

"You know, PETA would _love_ to get a hold of you!"

"And Bedlam would like to get a hold of _you_, you stupid, vapid cow!"

"Plock!"

"Ginny!" gasped Hermione from the bed, rising unsteadily on her elbows. She was staring at the redhead in shock. "Apologise!"

Ginny pouted. "Sorry."

Pansy smirked. "Accepted," she sniffed, tilting her chin up, her eyes dropping to the large diamond that rested on her fourth finger. Ginny's pout deepened and she left the room in a huff.

"Where did Ginny go?" asked Luna, coming from the bathroom. In her hand was a glass filled with water.

"She's probably in Hermione's kitchen, sulking," replied Pansy easily. She sat on the edge of Hermione's bed. "I honestly don't know why you're friends with that girl, Hermione…"

"Please don't, Pansy," whispered Hermione, her eyes large. "Not tonight when everything else has already gone wrong. Don't add to it."

Pansy sighed, her shoulders slumped, but she nodded. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I know you don't like it when we argue…"

"Plock?"

Pansy looked to her feet and saw Hermione's pet dodo looking up at her fearfully. The poor thing was scared of its own shadow and had the habit of running and hiding in cupboards.

"Sorry Bismarck," commented Luna softly, trying not to scare the dodo. "No marshmallows today." She looked at Hermione, who had eased back down on the bed, her hands folded underneath her and against her cheek. "Has Bismarck not broken the habit of marshmallow treats?"

"Nope," laughed Hermione under her breath. "I don't think I'll try, either."

The three girls remaining in the bedroom fell silent. A few slammed cupboard doors from the kitchen broke the silence and Luna sighed.

"I'd best go calm Ginny down. I'll take her home, too," she suggested, bending to pat Bismarck on the head. Bismarck squawked and dashed under the bed. All that was visible was the large tuff of feathers that stuck up from his rear.

The blonde paused at the doorway and said, over her shoulder, "Goodnight Hermione. I find that after a good night's rest, everything looks better in the morning."

"Thanks Luna," grinned Hermione, "Good night!"

Pansy and Hermione heard a few low murmurs and then two cracks as Luna and Ginny disapparated from Hermione's kitchen. Hermione sighed and turned to face Pansy. The black-haired beauty was staring at her.

"What?"

"You're not nearly as drunk as you had everyone believe," she said slowly.

Hermione shook her head. "I'll have to go job searching in the morning. I can't afford to miss half a day because I wanted to drink my worries away."

Pansy smiled, lighting her whole face up. "Always the planner, right to the end." The two young women hugged, and Pansy said her goodnights, and then disappeared.

"Just you and me, now, Bismarck," sighed Hermione into the quiet room. She wasn't drunk – Pansy had that right at least – and she wasn't tired despite it being nearly two am. Instead, Hermione rose and entered her en suite bathroom.

She followed through the motions for bed, not concentrating on anything. She brushed her teeth, her hair, and removed her contacts. She placed her glasses on the bridge of her nose and changed out of her blouse and pencil-skirt, slipping into the cotton tank and short shorts combo.

Still not tired, Hermione stopped beside her bed, slid open the top drawer of the side table, and pulled a marshmallow out of a package. Kneeling, Hermione looked under the bed for Bismarck, still only seeing what Luna did – his tuff of feathers, quivering in fright.

"Bismarck," began Hermione softly, "they're gone. And you know that Ginny didn't mean when she volunteered to pick for your feathers and make a boa. Now, stop being so shy and come out from under there. Have a marshmallow!"

However, the squishy treat didn't tempt the flightless bird and Hermione sat back on her heels, frustrated. Within a month, she'd be homeless and the future wasn't looking too bright in the job department, either.

A wave of desperation washed over Hermione, suddenly and painfully, making her gasp and give a shuddering, dry sob. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking until the panic disappeared.

"Gotta get my mind off it," she whispered, unsteadily rising and looking more like the drunk Luna and Ginny thought she was.

She ambled out of her room, to the hallway and down it until she reached her office. There, she collapsed into the plush leather chair her father had bought her upon graduation from Hogwarts. She drew her feet up under her and swivelled the chair around to face the far wall, filled from floor to ceiling with shelving and packed with books.

Unseeingly, Hermione rose and lovingly ran the tips of her fingers from spine to spine, not reading the titles or authors. She was lost in her thoughts.

Her father would take her in if she lost the flat; that much she knew. He quite liked Bismarck so finding a babysitter while she went off looking for a job wasn't an issue. It was finding a new job.

Hermione had the highest marks upon graduation, was the class valedictorian, Head Girl and prefect for two years before that. She had several jobs offers, great references, but had ended up in a basement library sorting books no one read.

She had wasted two years on Richard the Dick, who was happily seeing his secretary behind her back (and on her back) for the majority of those two years because Hermione wanted to give her virginity to someone who _loved_ her for who she was. And she hadn't met that man yet.

No one except her closest friends even knew her deepest, darkest secret. It wasn't anything bad – it was just the dream that she wanted and would possibly never get. She wasn't even aiming that high! And it didn't require a lot of money. It was a simple goal, and simple dream that was likely to never happen.

Harry was more than happy to finance her dream, Hermione knew, and he even said so on more than one occasion. And Ron had the contacts, as the owner of a successful bistro in Diagon Alley. But everyone else would laugh – especially Ginny.

Hermione made a face. Oh, she adored Ron's little sister and Ginny was great for a good laugh every once in a while, but she also had the large flaw of being incredibly rude and quick to judge. She could easily knock someone down and stomp on them before realizing how badly she hurt someone with her knife-wielding tongue.

Hermione sighed, and opened her eyes. A sparkly, shiny purple spine winked back at her in the streetlight. Confused, Hermione tugged the book from the shelf and looked at the cover.

_A Little Love in Spring_, was the title, with multiple authors underneath. Hermione chuckled.

"A romance anthology?" she asked, out loud, opening the book and reading the written inscription.

_Darling, a little romance for an already blessed life. Not that you need it, but a good, smutty read never hurt anyone, did it? Love from Mum_

Hermione smiled bitterly at the inscription. It was one of the few things she had left of her mother, who passed away several years ago after fighting a losing battle with ovarian cancer. Her father couldn't stand vivid mementos of his wife, and Hermione barely went to her childhood home if she could help it.

With a sigh, she closed the paperback and left the office, heading to her bedroom. Maybe it was time for a little romance in a loveless life.

Flipping to the first story – "Highlands in the Spring" – Hermione settled against her headboard and began to read.

_Laird Oliver Wood drove his horse hard through the brush as he raced against time itself. If he could make it to his family home, the assailants following him would be forced to leave him alone. His clan would take care of him and upon his return he would make sure that everything would go right. For once._

_Over several years, the estate had steadily declined; land was sold to pay for repairs and people left because they couldn't afford the rent. Oliver did his best to keep the food on the table of his tenants and on his family's table, but there was only so much he could do. His one bright spot had been Adrianne._

Oh, that spineless, conniving bitch,_ he thought darkly, ignoring the sting of a branch against his cheek, drawing blood. Forced to earn money another way, he bought a commission into the army and fought other men's wars, other country's wars and when he saved enough he would return to Scotland and save his clan. But before leaving, he asked Adrianne to marry him, his childhood sweetheart._

_She said yes. And then, when he was gone, slept with his mortal enemy Marcus Flint and then married him. _

_Of course, Oliver didn't know until a few nights ago, when he stopped by the nearest village to where he lived and learned of Adrianna. And the failing crops. Oh, and his father's death, and his brother's death and his other brother's disappearance. His mother had died years ago in childbirth, leaving Oliver now the sole caretaker of several people who were counting on him._

_And he couldn't deliver._

_But before the disappointment could settle in to the tenants and his clan, Oliver had to make it to the manor alive. After that, he'd worry about who was trying to kill him. That would be for another night._

Hermione sighed and placed the book on her beside table, the page she had stopped reading on dog-earred so she could resume easily. Poor Oliver Wood, she thought. Now there was someone she could share a drink over, commiserating over their bad luck.

She could just imagine him: tall, broad-shoulder but lean and not too muscular, with warm, toffee-coloured eyes, and short, cropped brown hair. His hands would be rough with calluses, from working a sword and being a "hands-on" man. His body would be slightly tanned, golden from his dedication to his training out under a hot summers' sun, and he would have a delicious line of dark hair that was like an arrow, pointing down his naval…

Giving one last sigh, Hermione slid under the covers, rolled onto her side and soon fell asleep. Her last conscious thoughts were on that poor Oliver Wood…

And the strongest, self-pitying thought of all: _I wish there was someone out there who would appreciate me for who I am_.

----

_Fucking hell_, thought Lord Oliver Wood as he crashed through his old ancestral manor, staring in dismay and astonishment at the rotted rooftop, squeaky doors and rain-drenched walls. A stench was in the air, one he recognized as bird waste, and he coughed into his shirt, almost dry-heaving.

"My God," he breathed, staring around at the dark and damp foyer, "what have I done by leaving?"

"Master Oliver?" came a creaking voice, from the far right of the stone interior.

"Yes?" called Oliver, taking a few steps forward with the torch in his left hand, raising it. "Is that you, Creevey?"

"Master Oliver!" called the voice of someone slightly younger than he, a man of twenty-eight years. Stepping into the light was a young man with nondescript brown hair and brown eyes and a light, lean body with very little muscle. He looked bedraggled and tired, but Oliver had a nasty suspicion that that expression was permanent.

"Colin!" exclaimed Oliver when he recognized him. "How are you?" he winced at the obvious answer that immediately came to mind. "Where's your little brother, Dennis?"

"Gone," Colin whispered, in a broken, hoarse voice, "He left as soon as he heard the news that they needed able-bodied workers out in the western prairies in America. He's gone for the land rush."

"Och, Christ," murmured Oliver, whispering thickly in an emotional brogue. "I hadna realised…" He too, put much emphasis on family.

Oh, family. Oliver sighed. One day he had hoped for a young son that he could bounce on his knee in front of a fireplace, whisper in his ear the secrets of their land, the nooks and crannies that he knew as a child. He wanted boys and girls with brown hair and maybe brown eyes; warm and compassionate and open children who laughed loudly and easily, smiled all the time and thought him the world. Children who would come to him with questions that needed to be answered, when cuts and bruises needed to be kissed better.

_But with Adrianne_, thought Oliver bitterly, sinking deep into his anger, _that was never going to happen_. His heart keenly felt the acute loss of something he never had to begin with – but it was aching for a woman who would love him for _him_, not his lands or title. A woman who could take him as he was.

Oliver never even had the chance to tell Adrianne that he was a wizard – and thank God he hadn't! She might have called the church on him, hoping to burn him at the stake… but only after they were wed so she could have his money and lands.

But Oliver chuckled darkly, not noticing Colin's questioning glance. _Adrianne probably had the shock of her life when she realised that Marcus Flint was a wizard too… and a much brutal one than he!_

"Master Oliver?"

Oliver startled. "Sorry, Colin, my mind was elsewhere."

"Yes…" the younger man beadily stared at the elder. "I could tell."

Oliver blushed under the look, but thankfully it was dark and Colin couldn't see the flush spread over his cheeks and ears. "I think I'm going to go to bed, Colin." Here, Oliver paused. "Is there a bed left for me?"

Colin nodded. "Of course!"

Oliver sighed. "Great. It's been a while since I've had a good nights' sleep, and I'll need it."

With that said, Colin led Oliver (after taking the torch from his Master) up the crumbling stone staircase that was once his mothers' pride and joy in the entire manor, through several empty hallways until reaching a set of double doors.

"We kept the room up for you, sir, the staff and I," began Colin, hesitantly. "I hope you don't disprove, but we always thought that you'd come back to us, one day. And thank the good Lord that you have, all safe and sound."

Oliver felt a warm feeling gush through him. He felt proud at calling Colin his clansman, and felt affection for everything that his staff had done, trying so hard in his absence to keep the manor running.

"No, Colin," breathed Oliver in the darkness, "I should thank _you_ for everything you have done for _me_."

Colin smiled, opened the doors and placed the torch in a holder on the wall. It gave off enough light for Oliver to see things, vaguely.

"Sleep well, sir," replied Colin, happily, and then disappeared out the room, shutting the doors behind him.

Oliver sighed, and after his eyes adjusted to the low lighting, he settled himself onto the bed, ignoring the musty scent of unused bedding. Without bothering to undress, he closed his eyes, draped an arm across him.

But before he fell into a deep sleep, he thought: _I wish there was someone out there who would appreciate me for who I am_.

And somewhere, somehow, something in his universe shifted…

----

Ok, I admit -- I'm still a little ticked off at the whole "obviously _I_ know whether or not your Dumbledore is an evil, manipulative bastard, Kneazle, because I am the reader and therefore I know everything" situation that arose with _Wyckham Academy_ recently. Does it still piss me off? Not that much. However, I am doing what several authors also from FFnet have suggested -- which was take a break, write something else. Only, that 'something else' happens to be a bunch of a) one-shots and b) novellas that all involve Hermione Granger. Mainly because I found Granger Enchanted and I'm absolutely smitten with the website. Or, maybe it's because I'm in a good mood/state of shock after buying a pair of Lucky Brand Jeans today. I don't know. But I am still writing WA, just... slowly. So -- more shorties than long chapters in a long series. :)  
Don't be hatin', k? Kneazle


	2. II: Introducing Laird Oliver

Figment of the Imagination

Kneazle

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Story idea from Sherrilyn Kenyon's "What Dreams May Come" anthology book.

**Summary**: AU. Hermione Granger's life sucks: she was recently dumped, made redundant, and can't pay her rent. Unable to sleep, Hermione tries to read a romance novel given to her for a past birthday – and wakes up with the hero in her bed. Is he real or just her imagination looking for a hero to rescue her?

----

**Note**: No, I actually didn't intend for this to be ala Thursday Next, despite my love for Jasper Fforde's novels (and I met him in October! He was really, really nice, even though it was midnight and I'm sure he just wanted to go to his hotel room and sleep after signing hundreds of books).

----

II.

The first thing Hermione noticed when she slowly eased into consciousness was that there was a heavy arm draped across her waist. Fairly certain that she had gone to bed alone – and that Bismarck hated anything that was cotton, like her bed sheets – Hermione deduced that she was still dreaming.

She deduced that she was still dreaming when she opened her eyes and even when she pinched her arm and felt pain.

When her alarm went off, Hermione decided that, although she was dreaming, she ought to get up and do her usual routine. Then, sighing, Hermione slipped out from under the arm and tugged her camisole down from where it had ridden up during the night. She ignored the way her king-sized bed sheets spilled over the edges of her small double bed and onto the floor.

As she turned to look under her bed for Bismarck, she caught sight of the owner of the arm. She sucked in a breath, involuntarily.

_Lordy, oh Lordy, he's fine_, Hermione thought, almost dreamily, as her eyes inched up each piece of tantalizing bronze skin that was revealed to her. She started at a large, tanned hand with a few barely-healed cuts that criss-crossed over his knuckles, inching her way up a toned and deliciously thick and relaxed arm; that arm attached to broad, strong shoulders.

Hermione wanted to lick the collarbone that was barely revealed by her bed sheet.

The Man's face – and that was Man with a capital M because he was a manly man – was strong and chiselled, with a blunt chin and long, narrow nose. His cheeks were covered with a five o'clock shadow, giving the impression of hollow cheeks. He didn't have fine or defined cheekbones like Harry, nor did he have the thin lips of her best friend. _This_ man had kissable lips. A sinfully pouty lower lip and a slight, curling upper lip that settled into a half-smile even when he slept. His hair was on the shorter side, but still enough to grab in the throes of mad, dangerously passionate, reach-for-the-stars, sex…

"God, I'm desperate. I need to get laid," she muttered lowly, almost unthinkingly. She then bit her lip as the fine specimen of manliness shifted on her mattress, hoping he hadn't heard her.

But, like in everything else, Hermione had no luck when it came to men.

Two hooded, sleepy eyes slowly opened, revealing tawny, honey-coloured orbs.

Hermione gasped and quickly stepped back, her feet tangling with the sheet that had spilled on the floor earlier. She squeaked loudly and flailed her arms in a wild windmill, and landed hard on her back, staring up at the ceiling.

_I hate my life_, she wailed in her mind. _And life hates me_.

So, feeling more than a little sad, Hermione laced her fingers together and lay them on her stomach, focusing on a water spot on her ceiling.

"_Oh, nobody knows the troubles I've seen_," she warbled under her breath, and was going to continue, had she not been interrupted.

"Er," a decidedly masculine voice began, and that delicious-looking man she had ogled earlier was standing over her, his face close to hers, eyes concerned. "Are yeh alright, lass?"

_He's Scottish!_ A giddy part of Hermione spoke up. _Scottish! Ask him what's under his kilt, Hermione. Askaskaskaskask!!!_

_Oh, piss off_, Hermione thought angrily, pushing the tantalizing thought of what was under his kilt away.

A warm, calloused hand reached out and closed around her upper arm, and with a gentle yank, Hermione was up on her feet, nearly pulled flush against a warm, bronze, naked chest. Her fingers involuntarily curled into fists as she stared straight ahead of her, her eyes locked on the man's collarbone.

"Yeh alright?" the man asked again, and Hermione was transfixed by his Adam's apple.

He gently shook her and Hermione gave a startled, quick intake of air; her eyes jumped up to meet his. Toffee brown locked onto chocolate and Hermione wondered if she was hungry, comparing this strange man's eye colour to her weakness of Godiva chocolate truffles.

"I'm okay," Hermione heard herself say, in an almost out-of-body moment. She stepped back, careful of the sheets and bent to pick them up and place them back on her bed. When she turned around, she realized that he had been staring at her – her rear? – and had quickly looked up at the ceiling when she noticed him looking.

Hermione blinked in surprise, and shook her head. _No way_, she thought. _I'm dreaming. Seriously. This can't be happening – an über hot Scotsman fell asleep in my bed, and is standing in my room, wearing nothing but a black-blue-grey kilt, sporran, and leather boots. I'm dreaming_.

"So," Hermione began, looking at the man from the ends of his boots to the top of his closely cropped hair, "How the _fuck_ did you get into my flat? Better yet, how the _fuck_ did you get into my_ bed_?"

The man's eyes widened and his jaw dropped slightly as Hermione's words became more forceful, and he sent a slightly fearful glance at the bed before darting his eyes around her room in half wonder, half panic.

"Milady," the man began in a deep burr that had parts of Hermione's body responding, "really – uh, I doona know exactly how I got here – I mean, I went to sleep in my own bed, and uh –"

"_You doona know_?" mimicked Hermione, stepping forward and jabbing her finger into the man's rock-hard pectorals. "Maybe you just got drunk and took the wrong Floo gate home, huh? Or maybe you thought, 'oh, there's Hermione Granger's flat, I bet I can get into her knickers!' Or, oh, oh, what about a drunken apparition attempt?"

"Floo? Apparation?" the man looked confused. "I doona know what yeh talking about."

Hermione frowned. With a slight pause, she asked suspiciously, "Just who are you?"

The man straightened and rose to his full height before making a gallant bow. He glanced up at Hermione with a slight grin and stated, "I'm Laird Oliver Wood, milady. And who might yeh be?"

_Oliver Wood? Why is that name familiar?_ Wondered Hermione. "Hermione Granger," she replied instead, falling into the comfort of a polite, meaningless conversation starter.

"Lady Hermione," purred Oliver, taking her right hand and kissing the back of it. Hermione hastily snatched it away, anger pouring through her veins.

"What's that all about?" she demanded, angling her body defensively.

Oliver looked startled. "I was just greeting yeh!"

"You don't greet people like that! You shake hands or nod or something!"

"That's not polite!" he replied back, his voice gaining in volume, matching hers in tandem.

Hermione knew her cheeks were red and his cheeks were flushed – whether in embarrassment about their situation and what he remember or what, Hermione didn't know – but there was one thing for sure: Hermione knew this man, somehow, but couldn't put her finger on it. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing in my home anyway? Seriously, you'd better give me a good reason before I call the Aurors! I have connections, you know!"

Oliver looked scandalized, his brogue deepening in anger. "I _told yeh_, I just went to bed in my castle after I spoke with Colin. I didn't go anywhere, I didn't see anything, I didn't _do_ anything! Now, I've had a pretty bad week myself, lass, an' doona think that you can just get away with shouting at me like yeh know me!"

"Castle?" asked Hermione, taken aback.

"Yes, _castle_," confirmed Oliver, sounding petulant and crossing his arms across his chest. The action drew Hermione's eyes toward his chest and she found herself drooling for a moment or two before narrowing her eyes in thought.

Castle. Laird. Oliver Wood.

A horn blared below on the busy London street that Hermione's building was located on, and on the floor above her, a radio was turned on while across, her neighbour began to run water in their bathroom. Silence stretched between the two in Hermione's bedroom, staring at each other from several paces.

_Oh Jiminy Crickets_, Hermione finally thought, sourly. _My romance novel. That's it: it's confirmed. I'm insane. I'm having a conversation with a fictional character from a _romance novel.

"You don't exist," Hermione finally managed to say, after several moments of quiet between the two.

_"Excuse me?"_

"You don't exist, you can't exist," Hermione continued, as if Oliver hadn't spoken, her tone half-incredulous and half-firm. "You're nothing but a character in the novel I was reading. It's impossible for you to have jumped from the book into real life."

Oliver opened his mouth to say something, but a loud buzzing sounded from Hermione's foyer, making her dart out of the bedroom. Oliver, on the other hand, groped at his left side for his sword, only to realize that it wasn't there. He cursed, fumbling around his waist for some sort of weapon, and finally gave up with an exasperated huff.

He left the bedroom, following Hermione's steps and turned a corner to see her facing off to a short, portly man with thin hair. He had an unpleasant sneer on his face, and was arguing with her, his tone clipped and precise.

Curiously, he leaned his shoulder against a decorative column and faced the door and the man, listening to the conversation.

"I can't believe this!"

The man sneered. "Believe it, Ms. Granger, but your rent is overdue… _again_. And this time I'm only giving you three days to get it to me before I decide to kick you out of this flat!"

"I've never missed a payment by more than a week and the first time I do, you give me the third degree? What's up with that?" Hermione asked, looking as though she wanted to snatch her hair in a tight grip and yank. Tears gathered in her eyes. "Can't you just give me another chance?"

He tone turned to begging, and Oliver frowned. Although he had just met the girl, her strong use of the English language made him sure that she was a strong, independent woman and seeing her break down in front of a leech of a man – who, Oliver noted darkly, was staring at her ample breasts – bothered him more than he could say.

"I've said it before when you missed your last payment, and I'll say it again: NO!" the landlord continued. With a sneer on his face, he glanced around Hermione's brightly lit flat. When his eyes found Oliver's, the Laird straightened and immediately, subconsciously, took up an imposing posture. He spread his legs slightly, shoulder width apart, and rested a hand casually on his hip where he'd normally place his sword scabbard.

The landlord looked frightened for a moment, but then glanced back at Hermione. Oliver immediately saw what he saw: Hermione's dishevelled appearance and his lack of clothing.

"And Ms. Granger," the landlord continued, nastily, "Might I remind you that there is no subletting allowed in this building? You should remember that next time you bring home a male companion… the people in this building are respectable members of society, Ms. Granger, and we won't have anything… degrade the quality of the tenants."

Without giving Hermione a chance to reply, the man slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Hermione staring at the closed wooden door in horror and mortification.

Her cheeks began to flood with a rosy hue, and Oliver warily took a step back. _That_ didn't look good…

"You!" Hermione snarled, turning and taking three quick steps towards him. Oliver hastily took two steps back, into the hallway. "You! You're going to make me lose my flat! I'll be homeless! Is that what you want? Are you some sort of demon sent to turn me mad? Are you here to ruin my life? Because let me tell you, you're about three weeks overdue – my life already sucks without you in it!"

Oliver held up his hands, pleadingly, allowing her to rage at him. "I'm verra sorry about yeh losing yehr home, Lady Hermione, but I am _not_ here to ruin yehr life!"

The tears that threatened to spill over finally did. Two streaked down her rosy cheeks, and Oliver resisted the urge to reach up and wipe them away. What was _wrong_ with him? He had just met the girl, and worse yet, woke up in her bed! Without any idea as to _how_.

Instead of replying to his apology, Hermione turned around and walked into her tiny kitchen, going straight for the fridge and pulling out food. She was on autopilot, doing her morning routine as though the delectable specimen of Scotland's finest romance novels wasn't standing in her hallway, looking confused.

She did her best to ignore him when he slowly made his way out of the narrow hallway, crossing her combined living/dining area. His footsteps were quiet and eerily tentative as he glanced around, taking in her beach landscape pictures, her telly and movie collection, and the large, corner fireplace that seemed out of character for her decidedly modern living quarters.

"Plock?"

Hermione hid a smile as she saw Oliver jump in fright, his fingers uselessly grabbing at nothing – he was obviously trained to prepare himself against scares, and suddenly frowning, Hermione wondered if he was involved in the war against Voldemort like she had been years ago. She too had nervous reactions to certain noises or places, to that day.

"Plock, plock?"

Oliver looked down at the ugly bird that was staring up at him. It was fairly large, reaching up to his knees, and possibly mid-thigh on Hermione, covered in grey feathers that it ruffled in agitation and confusion. A tuff of greenish-grey feathers, nearly six in total, stuck straight up in the air from its rear. A tuff of unruly feathers stuck straight up like a cowlick on its head and it had a hooked beak.

"Dear Lord, what is that?" asked Oliver, blinking down on the creature. He glanced up and felt his heart stop – Hermione had a stick in her right hand and was waving it around at the eggs, bacon and toast she had out on the countertop.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him, and frowned at his expression. "What?" she groaned, "Oh, don't tell me you're a Muggle!"

"_Yeh're magical_!" he yelped, instead, his eyes wide and the colour leaving his face quickly. He glanced around at the open, thin, gauzy curtains that covered her windows and quickly stepped up behind her, shielding her body and wand from view.

"What are you doing?" frost could have formed on her lips at her tone.

Oliver's eyes darted around, frantically. "Aren't yeh worried about being prosecuted?" his voice was low, taunt with fight as he watched the windows for spies.

_Was she daft?_ He wondered, looking down at the petite woman nestled against his front. She had tossed her hair over her shoulder as she glared up at him, the angle made awkward because of their spooning position. _Aye, she's daft_, grimly thought Oliver as she tensed her hand on her wand, opening her mouth.

_Oh, no you don't, lass_, he thought, leaning down and capturing her lips with his, stopping whatever spell she was going to say to turn into a breathy sigh.

Desire ignited low in his belly, warming him in the cool morning. Despite the fact that they didn't know each other, and that he somehow woke up in her bed, she was kissing him back. Her lips moved sensually across his, almost like butterfly wings and if he wasn't a trained warrior, Oliver was sure the phrase 'his knees were like jelly' would've been appropriate.

There was a strange whooshing noise from behind him, as well as a crackling that he associated with fire in the hearth in his castle – which was strange, because the fireplace wasn't lit when he walked by it…

"'Mione, are you ready – HOLY SHIT!"

Oliver broke apart from Hermione, stepping back and turning on his heel, placing himself between Hermione and the two people standing in her living room, in front of the fireplace.

The man was lean, and on the tall side, with a shock of jet-black, spiky hair, and vibrant green eyes. He wore very nice clothes, obviously tailor-made, and held himself with quiet confidence. The woman, on the other hand, had straight, chin-length black hair and wide brown eyes. She was the one who spoke, her mouth still gapping as she looked back from Hermione and Oliver.

Then, her mouth shut with a snap and a feline smirk settled on her lips. "Hermione!" she purred, letting her eyes linger as she looked Oliver up and down, who tensed under the observation, "sweetie, you_ must_ have been busy last night after we left! Are you tired?"

A glance over his shoulder sent Oliver scurrying away from the kitchen and out of Hermione's direct line of sight. He recognized _that_ expression easily enough.

"PISS OFF, PANSY!" the words erupted from Hermione's lips, and as if she couldn't stop, a barrage of insults, swear words, and several inventive ways to go to hell poured from her mouth.

"I am so _sick_ and _tired_ of everything – I just want to be in my little corner of the world, left alone and to be happy, but_ noooo_ I can't have that because I have no luck! And do you know _why_ that is, Pansy? Huh? Huh?! It because luck hates me! Luck designed to give me _bushy hair_ and _buck teeth_ and_ smarts_ but not looks and luck decided it would be fun to see_ how_ many times I could escape _death_ before my time ran out! And now I'm ready to _lose_ my flat, I've got a crazy_ fictional_ character in my flat without any explanation of how he showed up here, and all you want to _talk_ about is my _sex_ life – or, rather, I should say, my _lack_ of sex life! Are you done? Pansy? WHAT ARE YOU SMIRKING AT???"

Pansy held her hands up in an apparent plea for clemency, while Harry gapped and looked back and forth between his best girl friend and the half-naked Scotsman. "'Mione?" he implored. "Could you _please_ tell me what is going on?"

Hermione grumbled a bit under her breath and crossed her arms, frowning petulantly. "Don't wanna."

Pansy and Harry stared at the witch.

Harry cleared his throat. "I'm sorry… but I could have sworn that you just said that you don't want to tell us what happened. Now, normally, 'Mione… you're a jabber mouth. So… what's up?"

Obviously feeling discontented, as Harry kept glancing at the kilt-laden Scotsman, Hermione gave a long, suffering sigh and uncrossed her arms. "Fine. I'll tell."

Pansy arched a single eyebrow in response, waiting for the answers, which she was sure was going to be a good one.

"Harry. Pansy." Hermione began, taking a deep breath. "Somehow _he_"—she pointed an accusatory finger at Oliver —"was in my bed with me and I went to bed alone. And he didn't Floo. Or apparate. Or anything. He was just _there_."

There was silence for some time. Pansy looked as though she might have said something, but a quick glance at her fiancé's serious face made her fall silent. She was one of the few girlfriends that knew and appreciated Harry's relationship with his best girl friend. Slowly, Pansy watched as Harry's face turned to stone and a fury began to build within the jade eyes.

Harry's face turned to Oliver, to whom he hissed out, "Explain. _Now_." The words oozed with dark undertones and promised pain.

A bewildered Oliver looked up from where he stood in the hallway, almost shivering under Harry's fierce gaze. _Honesty is the best policy_, he thought, with a mental shrug, and stepped forward, drawing everyone's attention to him.

"I am Laird Oliver Wood," he introduced himself, unconsciously taking a warrior's stance. At the blank looks he received, he continued, "Of Hyde? Scotia?" When no one made a move to show they understood, he sighed and his shoulders dropped.

"You're Scottish?" asked Pansy, half in shock as she stated the very obvious. "Do they still have nobility there?"

"Pansy!" gapped Hermione. "Of course they do!" Hermione then nodded at the kilt-clad Oliver. "But he's _magical_."

"They don't have magical nobility?" Pansy asked, rolling her eyes as she amended her earlier question.

"No," replied Hermione, crossing her arms. She turned on her heel and went back to the kitchen counter, and added two more eggs to the two she had out. "I'm guessing you're staying for breakfast?"

Harry nodded, absently, as he stared at Oliver, who stared back, utterly confused. _Why aren't Hermione's friends worried about her use of magic? Are they magical too?_

"You're not from around here, are you?"

Oliver startled, jostled out of his thoughts. He glanced at Harry who was now looking at him with a peculiar expression on his face that showed Oliver that Harry thought him the most intriguing thing he had come upon since toast.

"Of course he's not," sniped Hermione, setting two plates on her kitchen table. When Oliver didn't move closer, she marched up to him, wrapped a hand around his bicep – which didn't even close – and dragged the Scotsman to the table where she pushed him into a seat.

"Then where is he from?" asked Pansy, pausing before shovelling a forkful of scrambled eggs delicately into her mouth.

Hermione huffed, didn't excuse herself, and stomped into her bedroom. Pansy and Harry shared a confused look, but when Hermione emerged, she held something in her hands. As soon as she sat back in her seat at the table, she tossed the book onto the wooden top.

Pansy picked it up and read the cover. "_Highlands in the Spring_. Three tales of passion, intrigue, and danger. Sinister Sorcerers, wanton witches, and wily wizards. Explore the Scottish Highlands through the lives of Lady Katharine in _Thistles and Tartan_; Jamie Douglas in _Never Tease a Scot in a Kilt_; and Laird Oliver Wood in _A Week in Love_." Pansy flipped back to the front cover that displayed a buxom, scantily-clad redhead in the arms of a meaty, long-haired half-naked warlord. "Merlin, Hermione, where'd you get this book? McGonagall's private stash?"

Harry, who had been taking a sip of his coffee, promptly spat it back into the mug. Pansy shot him a disgusted look, but then continued. "The redhead looks like Ginny." She paused. "If she actually had breasts, that is."

"Pans!" gasped Harry, turning red in the face as he tried to avoid looking at anyone at the table. "Can you please _stop_?"

"Sorry, sweetie," cooed Pansy, in what she hoped was a sufficient apology, and then shrugged at Hermione. "No, seriously. I never thought I'd see you with a romance novel. Where'd you get it?"

Hermione grit her teeth. "Can we get back to the problem at hand, please?"

"No. Where'd you get it? Then we can. No wonder you haven't got a boyfriend, you've got a written world as a sex life. That's so not healthy, 'Mione," teased Pansy, but Hermione was in no mood.

"My_ mother_ gave it to me, Pansy. Now, _drop it_."

Instantly, the good, teasing cheer of the room disappeared and a thick tension replaced it. Oliver frowned. Something was definitely going on between the three at the table; the two who knew Hermione, her friends, were instantly silent.

Harry cleared his throat. "So, Laird Oliver Wood." Emerald eyes met Oliver's toffee-coloured ones. "You're… a character from a _romance_ novel?"

Fighting to keep the blush off his face, Oliver coolly replied, "Apparently," despite having no idea what a romance novel was. Possibly something naughty, with the way the black-haired girl, Pansy, was going on and on about sex. _Or lack thereof, when it came to Hermione_, thought Oliver. He covertly glanced at the bushy-haired woman beside him.

Hermione leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, and let her head fall into her waiting hands. "_Pansy_!"

"Right! Sorry!" Although she didn't look it, Pansy did give a proper, kind smile to Hermione. She then turned to Oliver and asked, "So… if you're a fictional character, do you have memories of your childhood? Do you grow older? Did you grow _up_? Do you remember growing up? Does time pass in your world?"

Oliver looked affronted with each question. His dark brows were drawn into a 'V' and his lips were drawn into a tight, straight line. "In order: yes; yes; obviously; yes, I do; and yes, it does." He sighed. "Just because yeh think I am some sort of… character in a text does not mean that I am any less real than yeh are. To me, I could be in another world where yeh do not exist, so… I find this all very hard to believe, if yeh excuse me."

Harry looked confused, but Pansy nodded, satisfied and Hermione groaned, covering her eyes completely with her hands and shaking her head back and forth in despair.

"Since Oliver Wood here has no way of returning home – until, at least, we learn how he got _here_ in the first place – I suggest he acclimatises to this place. Hermione is the smartest witch our age and I'm sure she could figure it out," said Pansy, with a thrust of her chin towards her female friend. She then reached over the table and took Harry's hand, smiling at her fiancé. "Harry has the contacts that Hermione can glean for information and they can help too. Between _who_ we know and _what_ we know, I'm sure by weeks' end we can get Ollie here home."

Oliver's look of affront deepened at the nickname, but Hermione thought it was more of a pout, the way his lips pursed in slightly disgust and from being treated as a problem to be solved instead of a person.

Hermione decided to fix that. "If, of course, that's okay?" she asked to the Scot, softly.

_Crapezoids. Those delich eyes are now on you, girl. Smart move, smarty-pants._ Hermione mentally cringed under the light, amberish eyes.

Oliver nodded, and Hermione smiled at him.

"Great!" chirped Pansy, springing up from her seat. "If that's settled, then Harry and I can leave and you can get started, 'Mione…"

"_Excuse me_?" all of a sudden, Hermione's anger rushed back into her body, causing her to shake, as she too pushed her chair back and stood, facing Pansy. "As _if_ I don't have enough on my plate, Pansy! Tell me: who is trying to modify Remus's Wolfsbane potion? Who is working on Harry and Ron's mystery potion from their last raid? Who is doing that freelance journal article due in three weeks for _Alchemy Monthly_? And you want me to do this on my own? _I don't think so_!"

"'Mione."

At Harry's soft, inquiring voice, Hermione sighed and fell limply to her chair. "Harry?"

"What's wrong, Hermione?"

When Hermione refused to answer the question, for several minutes, Oliver decided to intervene with a quiet clearing of his throat. When Harry's eyes turned to the romance novel protagonist, Oliver said, "Her, uh, landlord arrived earlier and, um, threatened to remove her from her home." A tinge of incredulity and anger finished his sentence.

Harry's gaze slowly travelled down from Oliver's face to his leather-encased feet, and nodded to himself; he then turned back to Hermione, and taking her hands in his, stated firmly, "I'll take care of it, Hermione. I want you and Pans to do me a favour."

"Does it involve chocolate?" asked Pansy, eagerly.

The side-look that Harry shot her was steamy and Hermione mentally rolled her eyes. _I swear, these two are almost worse than Ron and Luna_.

"No… it involves the two of you taking Oliver to Diagon Alley and getting him some new clothes. If he's going to be here awhile, he'd best fit in so we can travel to and from the Ministry or the London Library, for example." Harry smiled at Hermione and patted her hands.

"Don't worry, Hermione," began Harry, as Hermione's stomach dropped at the words. "Everything is going to be alright."

Hermione's eyes shifted from Harry's earnest expression, to Pansy – who was eager to begin shopping and spending Harry's endless supply of Galleons – to Oliver, who opened his mouth…

"Just what, in the name of all things holy, is _Diagon Alley_?"

----

PS: Huge, huge _huge_ thank you's to everyone who reviewed! You've all been fab while I've finished with final essays and exams... one more to go on Wednesday and then the Keith Urban concert Thursday... (oh, and Christmas shopping which I haven't begun... whoops!) But big thanks go to **atruwriter **– you're an inspiration, sweetheart... seriously! You make me want to be a better writer. – Kneazle, Dec.9.07


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